Free Green Tea Won't Help You Now! by Dasha G. Logan

very instant for me to fall into, screaming and flailing my arms.  
    One of his feet gently prodded one of mine. "You were saying?"
    "Ah. Yes. Right. So, do you expect everything to run smoothly this time? With your IPA?"
    "O. — Yes. Actually I'll fly to New York tomorrow to collect a few papers which we need to proceed. My co-proprietor will sign them later today, but they're not in New York, so I'm not sure if it's tomorrow or the day after when I'll be back. I was assured one of the company lawyers is going to fly to them in person in order to pick up the papers and carry them to the company headquarters. I'll go with my own attorneys to have them check the documents, then I can sign them, too, and bring a copy back with me."
    I took in a sharp breath. "What nonsen—cra—I mean, that sounds very complicated and not very practical."
      I had this vision of an exasperated carrier pigeon, flying back and forth across the North American continent for no reason whatsoever. In a sensible world we could just sign the papers here and now. We would probably leave a few butter stains, but we would not have to sponsor the aviation industry in the process. I ground my teeth.
      "Yes, it is," he agreed. "But these rich people are complicated. Or rather they're used to having it their way."
    I sniffed. "Aren't you rich yourself?"
    "Yeah, I guess I am, but I'm not that rich. These people have more money than a single person can handle, believe me. Never worked for it either. It's no wonder they're completely insane."
    I swallowed a mouthful of food before I had chewed it. It stuck uncomfortably in my gullet. "Oh, really, do you think so? I mean, are they? That is, who are they? Are they famous?"
    He frowned. "Actually, it's just one woman. But she's not active in the firm. From what I hear, she's one of those heiresses who never eat, bake in the sun until their skin shrivels and are constantly higher than a kite."
    The waitress brought more coffee and I almost expected her to say, "Hah, man, that girl, she's the one to blame, and don't you let her fool you".  
    "I understand. Shrivelled... And totally bonkers. Have you met her?"
    "No, but I met her brother pretty often when we started to go bigger with Hard Pack. He was the one who thought we were the right kind of investment for his sister's money. Man, he's a figure. Honestly, I thought those people only exist in the imagination of Hollywood screen writers. James Bond could not hold a candle against him, he's the archetype of an English snob. You surely know the type."
    James Bond is most definitely not English! He's a Scot with a Swiss mother! And my brother's not a snob, he's a nob!  
    I let it go. What did these Americans know?  
    "Yes, let me guess, reddish blond hair? Slightly watery blue eyes? A name like Percy Herbert or Tarquin St. John? Launcelot Smythe-Smythe-Smythe?"
    He laughed. "Not so far off the mark. He's a dark guy. I think they married into the Spanish aristocracy or something. The family name is Corvera-Fabergé. Sounds like a fake, doesn't it? The only interesting thing about the man is that he plays polo. Crazy sport. I want to try it."
    "Fabergé?" I feigned disbelief. "Like the eggs?"
    "Odds and Eggs."
    I giggled nervously. "Was he the one who decided it was not yet time for you to—how do you put it—to go public?"
    "No, that was his underling. A man called Jacob Weinberg. But I heard a rumour the woman had disappeared on a coke-fuelled sex trip with her dealer, some yacht broker, and was simply not available to sign the necessary documents. She's some sort of Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Did it with every ski instructor in Courchevel, they say." One. It was ONE. "The brother suddenly also, 'retired', from business around that time. He was probably a crook or something. But their money's still good, what can I say. I hate to depend on these people, but right now I need them. I can tell you one thing though: once the shares are out there and they